


Rum Flavored Deals

by A_sillyGermaninLatin_Class



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Copious amounts of alcohol - Freeform, Hetabang 2020, M/M, Piracy, ships and stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:36:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23434780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_sillyGermaninLatin_Class/pseuds/A_sillyGermaninLatin_Class
Summary: France has a deal to make...
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Rum Flavored Deals

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the Hetabang 2020 Event :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy

The tavern reeked. The smells of vomit, stale alcohol, and unwashed bodies ingrained into the very walls of the building. It was a complete contrast to the sharp clean air of the sea or the thickly perfumed halls of the royal palaces, but despite this reek, France was still very glad to be back on land once more. He was not made for the sea, feeling much more comfortable in a saddle or on foot. Preferably conquering his opponents. Conquering England. But that was a far dream, and the New World was ripe for the taking. Besides, surpassing Spain would be just as fun. Though England claimed he had already done that with the defeat of Spain’s Armada. So beating England it was, then.

“What’ll it be?” The bartender interrupted France’s musings.

“Ah, I’ll have…” France looked around the tavern quickly, wrinkling his nose in disgust, “Well, I suppose you wouldn’t have any wine. I’ll have a whiskey.”

The bartender sneered at France before pulling out a bottle of whiskey and slamming it down on the countertop.

“Merci, blaireau.” France grabbed the bottle and retreated to an empty table in the back of the room. He was supposed to meet a contact here to negotiate a deal for his cargo. He didn’t know who the contact was, only that he was supposed to meet here and give the code phrase. The code was something french, he had made sure of that. He’d say ‘Quelle est la temperature sur la Manche?’ and if it was his contact they’d say ‘C'est une belle journée. Le ciel est clair.’ If they weren’t his contact, well, they wouldn’t say anything, would they? 

It was a flawless system. There were enough french traders in this port that it wouldn’t be immediately obvious that they were finalizing an illegal rum trade. Already basking in the glow of success, France kicked his feet up on the table, took a swig of his whiskey, and watched the rest of the bar.

A few minutes later the door banged open. Two figures walked in. The first one was wearing old dirty clothes and scurried before the second one in fear. A sailor of some sort. The second one wore fine clothes under a gilded red jacket. He stood with confidence, prodding the first figure in irritation and sadistic glee. Quickly, both men approached France.

The sailor sent a nervous glance at France before stuttering out some almost unintelligible french.

“You are dismissed.” the second man spoke sharply. At his command, the sailor fled back to the streets.

“Angleterre,” purred France, “How _wonderful_ of you to stop by.”

“Fuck off France” snapped England as he sat down heavily across the table from France.

“Ah. And may I ask why you are here?”

“This is my territory. Get out. You aren’t welcome here.”

“Non? I rather think I am.”

“And why would that be?” England smirked, raking his eyes over France. “I am not interested in your….goods.”

“No, I really think you are.” France shifted, taking his feet off the table and leaning forward. “Tell me, why did you seek me out?”

England laughed harshly, “I didn’t.”

“And yet... You are here, non?”

“Yes. To tell you to leave.”

“That, I am afraid, is something I cannot do.”

England frowned in irritation. Before France had a chance to react, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey and took a swig.

“Look, Angleterre, I have rather important business to attend to. I will not leave, besides this is a neutral port.”

England snorted and put the bottle back on the table, “It’s _my_ port. You’ll notice that you’re in one of _my_ colonies. And by important business do you mean that rum trade you had planned?”

“Eh..oui.”

“I’m that ‘contact’ as you’ve so described him.”

“ _You_?!”

“Yes. By a strange coincidence, your original ‘contact’ ended up on my bad side. His dying words were about this miraculous rum deal. And, well, I couldn’t pass up a chance to catch a French criminal, now could I?”

“What did you do to him?”

England smirked, “Now you care? Well, if you really want to know I threw him overboard. Such a shame that poor fellow couldn’t swim.”

France’s eyes darkened with rage as he stood up. “Angleterre--”

“I suppose free passage back to the Caribbean would be a good price for all your rum and good yes?”

France snarled and lunged at England, knocking the bottle off the table. It fell with a crash and shattered over the floor. England gave as good as he got, not holding any punches. Eventually, their fight became so violent and destructive that the bartender kicked them both out into the street.

They lay together in the muddy road catching their breath. People streamed by, not really paying attention. Finally, France stood up and tried in vain to wipe the mud off of his clothes. England stood slowly, swaying on his feet slightly. France froze, and they both looked at each other quietly. France sighed slightly at the sight of England, muddy and bedraggled and drunk, but still so powerful. After a minute of what seemed like almost peace, England snorted, turned and staggered away.

* * *

France woke with a headache in a strange bed. Groaning he stood and looked around. It appeared to be mid-morning, and the docks were already bustling. Slowly he made his way downstairs and toward his ship.

The light from the sun blinded his eyes as he walked out the door, but he continued forward. There was nothing for him here, he’d have to take his rum somewhere else to trade it off. A shame, but necessary. As he approached his ship he noticed a lot of activity on board. And one man standing above it all, watching the bustle.

“And just what do you think you’re doing on my ship?” snaped France as he approached the figure.

“Taking your rum, love,” smirked England. “You did want to leave, right?”

France glowered, “Oui. With _my_ rum.”

“Sorry love, a deal’s a deal.”

He looked about to say something else when the quartermaster called up that everything had been offloaded.

“Au revoir, love. I hope you die of scurvy before I see you again.” That said, England seemed to spring down and left the ship.

France stood watching in disbelief as all his alcohol was carted away. Once his foe was out of sight he called to his crew and they began to maneuver the sails and oars so they could leave port and hopefully find profit in a more friendly part of the world.


End file.
